Aging without Grace
Ageing without Grace
By Tony DeLorger © 2011
My reflection cries for recognition, it was yesterday that youth’s arrogance stared back, unwilling to acknowledge the possibility of life’s tempering, its rampant deflowering. The lines and blemishes like blighted brandings flaunt the scars of experience, each pit and ridge the remnants of my shattered dreams, my proudest deeds.
My hairline square and steady, still heavily wooded, cries for a distinguishing grey, but not a one to my dismay, thinking only that wisdom may have escaped me. Below a furrowed brow like a ploughed field, each line a weight from stress, caverns of broken promises and silent yearnings unfulfilled.
My eyebrows now twisted with white quills, growing like ivy tendrils, each alone, sagging low like an overhanging outcrop, shadows what once were piercing blue eyes. Their supple animation has squared under the turbulence and battering of fractious contention.
Windows to a soul tainted have now paled to a gravel grey, the crystal glint of past exuberance shallow and wanting. Now pleading for temperance, a respite from reckless choices and consequences, my eyes now reveal sadness, a hollow darkness.
A proud Roman nose strong and immoveable has been sun weathered, pitted and undermined at its foundation. Its central bump more prominent, thinner and cartilage pliable, that nose of mine has been broken by pride, by realisations of fault and failure. It now holds up my glasses so I may see my slow and insidious decline.
Below, my mouth from which so many words have passed; some I regret. Lies and truths embellished for promise, have flowed like honey, now dried and crystalline. Thinning lips, loose lips, betraying myself and each paradigm I have come to follow. What sweet words I uttered to woo my passions, and what cold and callous words I have thrust on my foes.
My jowls now sag, covered by a beard of multicolour, hiding the gravity result of living. Also my neck, a strand of useless flesh strung to marry face and neck into one. A beard now disguises the chin that so fervently struck a wilful line, proud and defiant.
My chest, cup B is heavily wooded, one of my few remaining traits of masculinity. The stomach below a homage to procreation, a rippling one-pack that defies my wardrobe. Below, my legs are muscle, shapely but joints showing ware, my knee from arthroscopy like a sack filled with potatoes. I creak from holding up the world, bend and tremble from the years of it.
There I am, in all my beauteous imperfection, standing, my reflection hiding nothing, revealing everything. I have wasted, I have indulged, I have sinned and I have loved. But as I look deeper, I know I have not finished. So I say through tainted mind and soul that I will prevail, and if nothing else my words will live. I will age without grace, bitter and fighting all the way. I will make my mark.
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